


Never Trust A Married Man

by Skeppsbrott



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, POV Second Person, Plot With Porn, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Sugar Baby, Sugar Daddy, Sugar dating, dirk gets better, nonlinear timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12093366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeppsbrott/pseuds/Skeppsbrott
Summary: In which Dirk Strider gets a sugar daddy.





	Never Trust A Married Man

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from Orup's song "Lita Aldrig På Gifta Män"
> 
> This work was never completely beta'd, feel free to point out any errors in comments.

In retrospect, “Cronus” can’t possibly have been his real name, you realize as you lay in bed, watching the shadows play on the ceiling. No goddamn chance. You would try and google it, except that would kick your “creepy and clingy”-level up about three steps. And then you google it anyway.

God damn it.

And yet he said it so effortlessly, not a moment of hesitation when you called on him. Every time. You wonder how many others have called him that for him to get so used to it. How many call him that now. Maybe he just found a new, shinier toy. Maybe at one point, you were that new, shinier toy. You feel sick.

He’d told you he loved you. That, in and of itself, shouldn’t matter, but it does. Especially when Jake never did.

Jesus fucking Christ, don’t bring Jake into this, too.

The clock reads 04:43, and you realize you might as well get up and go shower. You stay in the shower for almost an hour, climate change be damned.

* * *

“God, yes, I love you,” Cronus’ voice is all rough and raspy (in a very sexy way) against your shoulder. “Do that again.”

“What?” You squawk, feeling rather undignified and flustered but doing your best to hide it. Your short nails are digging into Cronus’ skin. You’re not even sure what it was you did; you were kinda busy trying your best to keep your cool (kinda hard when you’ve a dick up your ass; why you even bother you have no idea). He doesn’t tell you what, as his hips ram against you again, and you feel the leather seat of his Mercedes against your back as your shirt rides up. But he said he loved you.

In the back of your mind you realize what a terrible idea it is to listen to confessions like that if they’re said during sex. With that said, you’re currently far too preoccupied to bother listening to that part of your brain, and instead the heat of physical intimacy and movement is complimented by… a more personal heat. The kind that makes you drop your guard and make a very un-cool, very audible sound of pleasure as he pushes deeper into you. “Just like that, darling,” Cronus tells you, voice low and so close to your ear it’s almost like it’s inside of your head. “C’mon, let me hear you.”

The part of your brain that’s essentially just your personal insecurities and cravings for affection takes the wheel, and you’re lost. Lost, drowning, bound and leashed. You don’t even care that you’re a bad stereotype of a young gay guy, having casual sex with a much older man who’s probably married because holy shit.

You never meant for it to go this far.

* * *

“You just need to get laid by someone who isn’t Jake” wasn’t exactly what Roxy had told you, but that’s kinda what it feels like. Unfortunately, you have a type. Apparently. Dark hair, good legs and jawline, glasses, kinda dorky looking. God damn it.

Or more likely, you don’t have a type, but a problem.

You turn the high-ball glass in your hand, observing the bartender as she chat with customers and keep the bar clean. You watch her pour a glass of something that looks like whiskey (but then again, most liquors either look like whiskey or vodka in your book) and serve it to the man you’ve forced yourself to make your target. An easy decision.

He looks rather out of place; about forty, salt and pepper hair, brown leather shoes, in general looking too classy for a bar like this perhaps save for the scruff and scars. He takes a sip from the glass of straight probably-whiskey and country clubs and film noir comes to your mind. This is when you realize that you must’ve been looking at him for a good few minutes, “this” specifically being when he meets your eyes.

Well. Shit. You keep your cool and give him a slow, hopefully respectful nod. He gives you a confident smirk in return and slides off his stool to walk over to you. Well, shit, indeed.

He says his name is Cronus. Odd name, but you’ve heard worse, so you don’t comment on it. You say your name is Dirk. He asks if he has something on his face or if it’s his drink you’re trying to figure out with the staring, and you retort with a “do I look like a whiskey kinda homo?”, at which he snorts.

“If it’s the scars, then yes, they did indeed hurt like a bitch.” He sits down next to you and you have to admit that the combo of dark blue jeans, classy shoes, and blazer is one you’re far too young and tacky to have given the respect it clearly deserves.

“It was more the entire face thing,” you reply, scrambling internally for any knowledge you might have ever had on how to be smooth.

“Ouch,” Cronus replies. You bite your cheek, that’s probably not how one goes about being smooth. “Well, we can’t all stay eternally young and pretty.”

“I don’t mind. Mature and handsome’s a nice change.” You feel his eyes on you, and you take a sip of your screwdriver. As you down the drink you realize you’ve no idea about how to actually do a one night stand. Do you bring him home? Because your room is an un-sexy, goddamn mess. And you’re not sure you want to give some random guy your address. What if Cronus’ wife is home, then you’ll have no place to- wait, did you make that up? You look over at him again, and he is indeed wearing a wedding ring. Well, that doesn’t make things better.

“Handsome’s something I could stand being called more often. What about mature, you like mature?” He asks, sloshing the liquor around in his glass and giving you this piercing, blue eyed look that goes straight to your bones and sends a shiver down your spine. Dark hair and light eyes is clearly your Achilles’ heel. You ask your sense of morality for mercy and dive straight in.

Lucky for you, Cronus has a hotel room.

* * *

When you wake up, you’re alone. Outside, the rain is pouring, like one would expect it to do in October. Aside from the smatter of rain on the panoramic windows of the hotel room, it’s quiet. You grunt and roll over in the bed, your ass only aches a little as you do. It felt good, in the moment, but you’re not sure you’re over Jake any more than you were two days ago.

You grab your phone, as well as the paper it’s hidden under. Cronus writes in a sexy, neat cursive that wouldn’t look out of place in a Pirates of The Caribbean prop. You struggle to read it, rubbing the dreamsand out of your eyes, but you do make out a number.

_"I thought you could use the sleep, so I delayed the checkout._

_You’re pretty cute, dove. Give me a text._

_xx_   
_Cronus"_

You read the note again, and then two more times after that.

Holy shit.

* * *

You kinda want to ask him to take the wedding ring off when you go out. Or at least when you inevitably fuck afterwards. You’re just terrified of bringing any attention to it.

Tonight the ring is the only thing ruining the visual of his hand around your hard-on. He’s kissing the back of your neck, talking dirty and sweet into your ear. His thigh between yours, and you feel him against your ass. You pretend like you’ve got any agency in the situation, but reality is it’s just so nice letting go for once. You never could with Jake. You never can on your own. Cronus is the first time you’ve been able to lean back and let someone else do the work.

No lies, you kinda love it.

More than you like to admit, you also love that he’s older. He purrs “darling” against your neck and you don’t know what to do with yourself. It only took one or two rounds for him to figure out what makes you tick, and it makes you feel easy. You remind yourself he’s more experienced than you, that he’s probably been familiar with at least a few dicks. That doesn’t help much, as a wave of jealousy clash into you instead.

You turn around in his lap to face him, and feeling only so much more like a manwhore, ask if you’re his. He drops a beat, but quickly pick himself up, grinning. He kiss your jaw and toy with your hair. “Of course you’re mine, doll,” he murmur, “all mine.” You undo his pants and he sighs softly. “No one else can have you like I do.”

This is the first time that, for a few hours, you forget that he’s married.

* * *

There’s flowers at your door. They must’ve been delivered while you were at work, and it’s a wonder they look untouched. For a good few minutes you’re baffled, completely sure someone’s gotten an address wrong. Then you read the card, mostly to see if they’re maybe meant for the woman next door.

_“Thank you for your company last night. Next time let’s go for sushi; there’s a place westside I want to try._

_Don’t forget to message me when you find a button up you like._

_xx_   
_Cronus”_

He sent you flowers.

You. Dirk Strider. You stare at the chrysanthemums for a bit too long, trying to remember if you have any sort of vase. Eventually you find an old mathletes champions cup to put them in. They look incredibly out of place in your otherwise very mechanically oriented flat, but you kinda like it.

He sent you flowers.

No one has ever sent you flowers before.

Maybe he’s better than you thought he was.

* * *

_Anonymous 01/12/16 01:51:34 No.7XXXX70_

Like a month ago:

>Be me.  
>Be recently broken up with first boyfriend. Feelsbadman.  
>Go to local gaybar to take my mind off of it.  
>It works, get hit on by older guy with DILF-vibes.  
>Salt and pepper hair, kinda scruffy, crows’ feet, probably in his forties.  
>Be heartbroken and really easy, we fuck.  
>Not that terrible, he’s pretty hot. Knows what he’s doing. You know the drill.  
>He starts taking me out, we eat nice food, go back to his hotel or fuck in his car.  
>Sends me flowers.  
>Kinda fall for him. Really hard.  
>Flash forward to today.  
>I’ve mentioned my birthday is early December so not super surprised he’s left a box in my bag.  
>Open it.  
>It’s a wristwatch (pic related).  
>Neat. Doesn’t look as flashy as the ones he wears, actually something I don’t mind wearing.  
>Google how to set timer.  
>This watch is ridiculously fucking expensive.  
>Like, couldn’t buy it for myself without saving for literal months-expensive.  
>Oh, and he’s probably married.

Did I stumble upon a sugar daddy, /lgbt/?

 

_Anonymous 01/12/16 01:59:02 No.7XXXX13_

>>7XXXX70 (OP) (you)

>Did I stumble upon a sugar daddy, /lgbt/?

yeah.

 

_Anonymous 01/12/16 02:00:12 No.7XXXX22_

I’ll trade you.

 

_Anonymous 01/12/16 02:10:56 No.7XXXX08_

>>7XXXX70 (OP) (you)  
>married  
>falls for him

Good luck with that, OP.

* * *

_Anonymous 03/12/16 06:35:42 No.7XXXX58_

OP here.  
Guy said he loved me tonight.  
I’m fucked (literally).

 

_Anonymous 03/12/16 09:13:20 No.7XXXX22_

>>7XXXX58 (you)  
in real life, “i love you” doesnt have to mean shit.  
what are you, fourteen

 

_Anonymous 03/12/16 10:03:09 No.7XXXX63_

>>7XXXX58 (you)  
>I’m fucked (literally).  
been there, done that.  
good luck, dude, some advice: never trust married men.

 

_Anonymous 03/12/16 09:13:20 No.7XXXX22_

>>7XXXX63  
Thanks.

Thread’s gonna die pretty soon, probably won’t post more about this after that.  
If anyone’s curious just ask for me in /gaygen/.

Thank you all for your advice and stories. I’ll try and keep them in mind.

* * *

Cronus pulls out, and you realize you’d entirely neglected how tired you are. Your body is aching, exhausted and sore. For a moment, you’re left on your own, trying to collect yourself in this haze of waning pleasure, tired muscles, and fresh laundry-smelling sheets. Cronus soon returns; warm against your side and pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder. He’s so gentle, almost apologetic. You close your eyes and your mind wanders, to the boat you know he has, or the apartment in Milan he’s told you he spent his late twenties in. It’s a stupid dream, but you imagine going to bed together and waking up together, in a place that doesn’t belong to someone else.

“I love you,” you breathe, feeling stupid as the words leave your mouth and quickly tacking on a “dude” at the end. Cronus starts planting kisses down your shoulders, the coarse knuckles of his hand stroking your lower back. You wonder if he’s choosing not to reply or if he just didn’t hear you. You’re not about to try and figure it out, either. Instead, you focus on the lingering afterglow, body warmth and gentle touches. When Cronus ask you if you want to shower, you’re almost asleep. “Oh,” you grunt, looking up. “Uh, no, I’ll just wash up. You need to be somewhere tomorrow?”

Cronus trace shapes on your back. “Yes.” You probably do a bad job at hiding your streak of disappointment with how he looks at you. So you glance away, feeling your cheeks heat up a little. You hear him hesitate a moment before speaking again. “Talk to me, Dirk.”

“It was good,” you say, stretching a little and still looking away. “You’re good. If you’re not too disgusted by it, I’d like to try rimming sometime.”

“Dirk.”

Finally looking up at him, you get the strangest feeling of being a difficult child. Cronus tilt his head a little. “...it’d be cool to wake up and not feel like someone’s waiting for me to leave the room, sometime.”

“You don’t want to see my home, darling.” It’s tempting to tell him you do too, but you decide against it. There’s also somewhat of an unsaid “and I don’t want to see yours” tacked on at the end. You roll over on your back. Cronus inspect the blotchy red hickeys you asked him for. Stupid thing to ask for, in hindsight. “Tell me when you’ve a few days off in a row, and I’ll look into it.”

It’s not like you can tell him you kinda hate hotels. You hate how clean and fake the rooms are. How obvious it is that no one lives there. The way it’s a whole process getting hold of anything you would have within an arm’s reach in your flat. The way you feel the staff observing you as you leave. Cronus kisses your collarbones. You remember the boat he’s mentioned. “What about sailing?”

“What about it, dove?”

“You have a boat.” You have never felt like such a moron. It’s like you’re struggling to string words together.

“I do have a boat. You’ve ever been at sea?”

You’re pretty sure pedal boats don’t count. “I’m a quick learner.”

“It’s hard work.”

“Do I come off as a person who’s scared of sweat?”

Cronus snorts. “Fine,” he says, kissing your forehead and tracing letters on your tummy. “I’ll take you sailing, sugar.”

“Damn, really?”

“I swear.”

As you’ll eventually learn, this is probably not a word he has any intentions on ever making good on.

* * *

**17:58**  
you know i dont want you calling me.

**17:59**  
Oops. I forgot. Are we still on tonight?

**18:02**  
sorry, dove. other obligations came up.

**18:03**  
Of course. Don’t worry about it.

**18:03**  
Next time?

**18:16**  
im pretty busy. ill call you.

* * *

“God, you’re perfect.”

Cronus grunt, pushing your hair out of your face. The part of you that’s a petty, possessive little twink want to ask him why it’s been almost two weeks since you saw him, if you now so happen to be “perfect”. The part of you that’s still twinkish, but more strategic and horny than that first part, don’t really want to take the pause in blowing him that speaking would require. You look up at him over the edge of your shades, stroking his hip, and he makes one of those noises that makes your blood rush through your body like it’s stressed to hide it’s mistress from it’s wife.

Wait, bad metaphor. Whatever. Cronus’ hand tightens in your hair and you remember exactly why you’ve been wanting this, even if your anxiety kicked your ass about it. You pull back and lick your lips. “Gorgeous,” he hums, pressing his thumb against your lower lip. You shiver, part your lips, and let him slip his finger into your mouth. Blue eyes look down on you, and you wonder how bedchamber-y you’ll have to make yours to make him realize he can’t go without you.

If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re currently thinking with your groin, you’d be embarrassed by how desperate, how stereotypical you’re acting. He replaces his thumb with his index finger, and you suck happily on it, that part of your mind responsible for image going into panic mode as you let your eyelids drop. Fuck, whatever. You don’t know when you’ll see him next time, better just enjoy it. Cronus sighs, reaching down to move your hands over his erection. How stereotypical indeed.

It’s not like you can will yourself to not mind, but you can ignore it. And you can tell yourself that the role of slutty twink is just part of the act you put on for him, just like he puts on an act for you. You try and imagine him complexly, remind yourself of that one time he spoke to his father on the phone in your presence. How concerned he sounded, how genuine. It has helped you hate him less these past weeks, though you’re not entirely sure that’s a good thing. Cronus moans and stops your hand for a moment, but this isn’t that kind of lay, and once he sees you continue like it’s no big deal, he lets you go. You bite his knuckles lightly as your tongue stroke his fingertips, and don’t hesitate for a moment as you finish him. Your knuckles get messy with spunk. You wipe them off on a corner of the sheet as he removes his from your mouth, petting your hair and telling you you’re a dream. You crawl up on the bed, next to him.

“A dream, you heard that?” He murmurs, kissing your jaw and stroking your thigh. You kinda want to tell him to shut up so you can sit and grind yourself dry in his lap.

“I did.” Part of you gets a sudden urge to ask him what about that sailing trip. Cronus gently starts to remove your shirt.

“You want to cuddle?”

The answer is yes. A thousand times yes, you want to curl up in his arms and breathe in expensive cologne. A hundred pleads of warmth and physical affection, pecking at you so intensely you forget to remind him of your boner. You’re not quite so obvious in telling him that, though, and instead just give him a casual “sure” and let him pull you down with him. Topless, but still wearing your sweats. He kisses you. You feel like you’ve maybe been too harsh on him. Like maybe you’re not giving him enough credit as far as his affections for you goes.

Because after all, he’s just in a different state of life than you. He’s got obligations you can’t even dream of, but he’s always happy to come spend time with you when he can, right? Cronus pulls you up against him, either failing to notice, or just not caring about your raging erection. You try not to care too much either, pushing the bitter voice at the back of your mind aside to make room for Cronus calling you pet names.

* * *

You’re not more daft than that you realize the gifts are all because Cronus noticed you’re ever so slightly mad at him. Or mad at yourself. You can’t really tell anymore.

Jewelry to replace that one ring you’ve been wearing in your ear since you were fifteen, brand name underwear, hair oils… you wonder if he just don’t know enough about your interests outside of himself to dare a gift related to that, or if your appearance legitimately is the only thing he cares about. You’re kinda ashamed about how intensely you wish it’s the former. Still. He noticed, and he wants to make it right. You tell yourself. And guy clearly got taste too, you think as you turn the precious bottle of argan oil in your hands. You’ll be the perfect goddamn boyfriend, and he won’t even want to look at anyone else.

He has a wife, your brain reminds you.

You want to kick yourself in the frontal lobe, though part of you is praying he’s not wearing the ring tonight. It’s not even a hookup, it’s one of the legitimate dates. Though as usual it’s rather last minute. You spend an hour working the oil into the dry tips of your hair.

* * *

Cronus picks you up in his car, and when you sit down you get a flash of remembering how the leather of the seats feels against your face. He pulls you in for a kiss, tells you you look pretty. You try and be… not mad at, but critical of him, reminding yourself of all the things your brain likes to yell at you at two in the morning. It’s hard when he keeps his hand firmly planted right above your knee when he’s not working the gear shift. You scroll through his music library, eventually settling on The Police. Cronus kisses you again at the next stoplight, and you forget to look for his ring.

* * *

These few hours of Friday evening are legitimately the best you’ve felt in way, way too long. Kind of pathetic, but you try not to think about it. You can’t help but admire him, adore him. He speaks with a confidence that seems so genuine you can’t help but envy it, even when you know you fake yours well. You mostly listen, enjoy food that’s 1) too expensive for you to buy and 2) too fancy for you to make, and immerse yourself in his aura. You’ve since long accepted that you’re way into Cronus; the shadow that appears on his jaw after just a few hours, the prominent nose, the grin, the way he talks, the strokes of vanity and posessiveness that mirrors your own, the coarse hair covering his arms…

He casually touches you when he can get away with it, a foot constantly resting against your leg underneath the table. He call you “sugar” and “babe” and “chief” and the way you melt inside is seriously fucking with your credibility as a cool guy but it is worth it. It is so, so worth it. The dimly lit restaurant makes his eyes look darker than usual, with the candlelight mirrored in them reminding you of their blueness. He talks about how he’ll be able to go on a longer sail this summer and light up as he speak. He talks about cooking and asks how you like your (fucking delicious and fancy-ass) seafood soup. He’s warmer and more inviting than you think you’ve ever seen him, offering you a taste from his plate, complimenting you, even briefly mentioning his sons. You knew he had them, but he mentions high school and that confirms that at least they’re younger than you. You feel bad you ever doubted him, glad the light doesn’t reveal your warm cheeks or that your heart does a stupid little flutter thing when he brush his fingers over the back of your hand.

You want to tear his lilac button-up open. When you leave briefly for the bathroom his fingers brush over your hip; barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

* * *

For change’s sake, you wake up with Cronus’ arm still wrapped around your waist. He’s warm against your back, unmoving aside from his chest rising rhythmically against your back as he breathe. The air he blows out through his nose tickles your shoulder, but you wouldn’t want to move even if you easily could. In your own chest, your heart flutters as flashes of the past night appears in your mind. Your mouth is dry from the wine, but staying where you are wins out over fixing that.

Outside is light, and you figure it’s probably noon already. Cronus always orders late checkout, though, or even an extra night, so you’re probably fine.

He’s been so good to you. Dozens of variations on “mine” are still ringing in your ears, dozens of variations on “yours” still at the back of your sore throat. You want this to be every morning, forever. Your leg starts tingling as it falls asleep, and you shift a little. Cronus’ hand moves from your tummy to your hip. It rests there for a bit before stroking down your thigh, and you feel yourself tense up a little as your focus shift to the sensation.

Cronus’ hands are dry, with nails cut short, and not particularly pretty. But they do have a roughness and masculinity you hope to achieve yourself, once your twink days are over. Too many, too long minutes pass and said hand finally dip between your thighs. You lay still, feeling his hands on the soft skin on your inner thighs, wondering which one of you will speak first.

He does, murmuring a “good morning, love” into your ear as he palm you, feeling you grow hard in his touch. You’re probably way too easy, but honestly you don’t even want to play that kind of game with him anymore. You just want him to touch you, and so badly at that it’s almost sad. So you reply with a “good morning” yourself, and push back against him in encouragement. He roll his hips a little to acknowledge it, then kiss your shoulder.

The pace is slow, almost painfully so, but you can’t say you mind. He rolls you over ever so slightly, separating your legs with a knee between your thighs. You feel him against your ass, your hip. Eventually you reach him lube and the last of the condoms still on the nightside table. He touches you like he’s never known anything else in his life, and your breath shivers against the sheets. When he finally push inside of you, he doesn’t shift a beat.

You lay together for you-have-no-idea-how-long, skin to skin, his breath against your shoulder, his hands moving over your body. One moment they’re on your back, then they shift to your arm, or your hair. He’ll pause, speeding up for a short few moments, leave gentle kisses. You forget the world. It’s like trance, for a short while, your muscles relaxed and heavy against the mattress. Nothing but a low-key, gentle pleasure, nothing but his weight on you, the desire dully throbbing in your groin and against the sheets. When he finally ask you if you want him to pick up the pace (calling you “dove” and everything) it takes you a minute to remember how words work. He laughs and roll the two of you over on your side.

“Pretty boy,” Cronus breathes into your neck, in between “darling,” “sugar,” and “babe.” His hand is firm on your thigh as he tell you how good you feel, how gorgeous you look, how lucky he is. How hot it would be for you to come on his dick alone. _Think you can manage that, Dirk? Just tell me what you need._

You slur something and reach behind you to grab his hair. Or any part of him. Your world is nothing but Cronus, nothing but this, which fades into a meaningless buzz right past the edges of the sheets. He lifts your leg a bit more, and the slight shift in position makes something click inside of you. It only takes a minute, and you cry out his name as you hand yourself over to him on a silver platter. Cronus sounds genuinely impressed when he describe to you exactly how hot that is. Then he tells you how proud of you he is, though your hazy mind can’t quite pick up on what he says. You almost sob as he tell you he loves you, and finally lets himself go, but you’re not sure if it’s from your over-stimulated ass, or something lodged deep in the back of your mind.

You don’t even care how gross you feel when he scoops you up and kisses your forehead.

* * *

_Anonymous 12/25/16 18:21:07 No.7XXXX43_

My christmas so far:

>Get ironic, shitty, jpeg-artifact-y E-card from brother.  
>Drink eggnog.  
>Remember I hate eggnog.  
>Having anxiety over fwb/bf possibly ignoring me.  
>Remember fwb/bf has a family.  
>Wish fwb/bf would be more terrible of a guy and reject them, instead bringing me to a mountain lodge or something and cuddlefuck me in front of the fireplace.  
>Feel terrible about self.  
>Play vidya.

>>7XXXX21  
Sorry to hear, man. I’ve something similar, actually. We lost them when I was still way young, and I’m not much for tradition anyway, so it’s business as usual. Kinda sucks being alone, though.

Oh well, at least I know they’re not choosing to reject me based on superfluous crap like sexuality (sorry to all of you dealing with that).

* * *

You’re not nearly classy enough to appreciate this fancy-ass café Cronus chose for you. You’re a _a-venti-americano-with-milk-to-go-please_ type guy, and this seriously limits your ability to appreciate fancy coffee in tiny cups. Cronus, on the other hand, looks like he’s straight out of a GQ advert. Navy blue suit jacket that matches his eyes (you do a mental keysmash when you notice), expertly styled hair, light reflecting in the chunky watch, and his Ray-Bans folded up on top of the The Economist that he’d been reading before you came.

It’s a distinctly different Cronus from the one you’ve seen in the neon light of bars, or the bare-chested one who’s glossy with sweat in the moonlight. This one is a bit easier to imagine as… real, yet still looking more made up somehow. His crow's’ feet look less like something he put on to catch twinks in bars, and more like they’re actually the product of skin stretching and squeezing over decades. It makes your poor, gay heart beat like you can’t even imagine. You honestly don’t mind in the slightest that when he needs to leave this time, you’ll go back to being alone and staring at the wall, instead of the usual fuck. Some part of your mind goes haywire and points out that this would be the perfect moment to talk more seriously about the two of you. No need to step it up into euphemisms or sweet-talk territory. Your body shivers with the sudden realization, the craving of hearing him address you seriously. Dark blue eyes meeting your light brown, reminding you that-

“So, anyway, Dirk-”

“I love you too.” Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding yourself. You get an intense urge to pour the delicate cup of espresso straight into your eyes. Cronus looks at you, and you keep your pokerface tight. His gaze seems to flicker a little, not as intense and focused as you’re used to. Your grip on the cup tightens. “Never would’ve gone to such a _chic_ little café weren’t it for you, dude. Good job.”

Cronus doesn’t look too impressed with your attempt at saving face. Just as good, you’re not very proud of it either. He goes back to silence and your skin crawls. Did you jinx it? You’re not sure what you feel, if it’s the terror from the nights he’s late and doesn’t call, or maybe the burning hatered that occasionally seeps through the cracks of your psyche, in the early morning hours. You remind yourself that you’re in public, in broad daylight. No shit that’d tick him off a little. “You were saying?”  
Cronus finish his cappuccino and set it down with a soft clink.

“Right,” he says, licking his lips. You notice the absence of a ring on his hand, and your heart skips a beat, blood ringing in your ears as you strain to somehow maybe hear into the future, even if you know he’ll talk soon enough. “You need to stop texting me, Dirk.”  
You blink.

“Thought you didn’t want me calling you.”

“I don’t.”

You do a double take. You’re not stupid, that whole dream where you’d moved in with him in a penthouse in Old Town was just a dream, after all. Still. The sounds of the café hasn’t changed a bit, but it’s like you just pulled a pair of muffling earbuds out. It takes a moment for you to form the words. “So you’re breaking up?”

Cronus eyes wanders, focusing on something out on the street. He strokes the stubble on his chin. “Don’t get me wrong,” he begins, “you’re a good guy, Dirk, but…”

But? Cronus looks over you again, that kinda look where you know he’s mentally undressing you. Instead of making you feel attractive, you feel oddly violated, and you cross your arms.

"...I have other things I need to focus on right now.” Your eyes are unwillingly drawn to his bare, left, ring finger. “And I need you to stop texting me.”

* * *

Cronus refuses to leave your life. Even when he’s made it abundantly clear he doesn’t want to be in it. You go out, but it’s like he’s at every goddamn bar you go to (in reality, you probably run into him twice during the ten-or-so outings you do that spring and summer). You see him on your way home, smoking outside a bar with his hand on some blue-haired femboy’s ass. You find a familiar chest and description on Grindr, and flinch at the stated age differing from what he’d told you. You do a job fixing the light-up signs at a local theatre, and almost fall three meters onto the sidewalk when you see him again with the same guy as a few weeks earlier, only now with purple hair and a watch suspiciously similar to the one you have waiting at home. You wait for Roxy at her job and notice a familiar face on a photo in the paper the woman next to you is flipping through. You want to tear the paper out of her hands to get every last detail about what the hell your Cronus is doing in the paper, but don’t. And you can’t find the paper in the shop either. You wish you were properly lacking in morals so you could doxx him or something. Be a home-wrecker and send a crudely written letter to his wife.

Of course, nothing of this changes anything, and even when you feel completely crippled by the way you turn into emotional, decomposed mush whenever you think of him, life goes on.

* * *

_Anonymous 20/08/17 15:45:03 No.7XXXX00_

Can someone explain to me the science behind the fact that I keep seeing my ex and his new guy every single goddamn fucking time I make the effort to leave my house?

* * *

You wake up before your alarm, but you do wake up, which suggest you actually got a few hours of sleep. It’s a comfort.

You lay in bed, listening to the doves outside your window and the morning traffic waking up. Eventually the alarm beeps. You pull together the emotional strength to tell your executive dysfunction to fuck off, and get up, pour half a liter of orange juice down your throat, and decide you feel alright enough for an egg. While it fries, you try and find something adult looking enough to wear to your interview.

Your room is a mess, but you feel surprisingly not-terrible about it. You have like three dress shirts, and pulling out the denim one, you’re reminded of your one fancy dinner date with Jake. You hesitate for a moment, dip your toes into the memory of picking it out because it didn’t make your shoulders look like a steep hill, then put it on. You save the pants for later and go back to your egg, scrolling through your Twitter feed for the morning news. Either your medication is nothing short of magic, or you’re just so anxious you’re numb to it, because you feel far more okay than you’ve given yourself the right to.

Before you leave, you put on the watch. Cronus’ words about every decent man having a good watch echoes in your head for a moment. You clench your jaw, think of something else. The guy who complimented it when you and Jane were out a few weeks ago. The fact that you look halfway competent in the mirror. The excited tone of the guy on the phone asking you for a second interview. It’s a strange feeling.

Spotify shuffles to _Message in a Bottle_ , and you force yourself not to skip the song. The early spring weather is mild as you walk outside, the streets still wet from the past night’s rain. Your throat feels tight as you get caught on the baseline and remember a rough hand tapping along with the rhythm against the gear shift, but you force yourself to focus on Sting’s voice instead, telling yourself it’s not self-flagellation if you just want to unlearn your ex from this legitimately good song.

And life goes on.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you want a smut of this.


End file.
